Tug sinks into the back cushion,
window gazing,
warning-off the outside world
until sleep lids her eyes and she dreams.
She is my muse,
this little dog,
so old now that I carry her up the stairs
to our shared space.
We each have our roles here,
creator, companion,
crafted perfectly after
so many years of practice.
All the years, all the practice
have blended the roles like watercolors,
melding us in affectionate symbiosis.
Dare I say love?
With clouded eyes, she watches my brushstrokes,
observes my every move from her familiar perch.
She approves what I do and I appreciate
her kind critique, her loyal presence.
Does she perceive this as our space
or as her space which she lets me use?
Does it matter?
No, it does not.
All that matters is this:
Today is another day and we are together in our studio,
this small, aging dog and
I, her grateful, faithful, aging friend.
